Lilacs Out of the Dead Land 2
Franklin Montgomery Allan Jones. That was the target’s name. Jones, a partner at Felton Rankin, lived in a nine-thousand-plus square foot Georgian home. Three stories. Five bedrooms. Appraised at just over twelve million. Jones didn’t make that kind of money as an environmental lawyer, not even working for Felton Rankin. He had inherited most of his money. His father built the house in the 50s after making a fortune in real estate back when the city was booming.
Jared, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes, slowed his jog as he passed Jones’s home. It sat near the center of a ninety-thousand square foot lot. Seven foot brick wall around the property. Wrought iron gates that could be opened by remote. Large trees, mostly Chinese elm, near the edges of the property. Open lawn after that, well lit at night and monitored by motion sensors.
The wall posed little obstacle. Jared estimated he could be over it no more than three or four seconds. The elms would provide concealment, and the neighborhood watch, provided by a private security firm, drove predictable routes. Jared could park on the business street adjacent to the subdivision, cut through the park. Avoiding detection would be easy enough, except for the motion sensors.
Jared stopped near the gates leading to the long drive up to the house. He squatted to retie his shoes. He stood, stretched his legs a bit, and then continued to jog, his thoughts turning over the problems. By the time he made it back to his car, Jared had worked up a light sweat, but his breathing was still regular. He checked his pulse. It was still under eighty. Behind the wheel of his car, he leaned his head back against the rest, closed his eyes.
“Wall poses no real obstacle. Up and over in a couple seconds. Low-crawl past the sensors unsafe,” he said. “Not enough time to move slowly enough. Grounds too well-lit. Target could spot me.”
Jared sighed, fished the large manila envelope from beneath the passenger-side seat. He flipped through the contents again.
“Target has private gym membership,” Jared continued. “Keeps regular times, but parking lot patrolled and monitored. Target’s office also too high profile. Target’s routes too and from offer few opportunities.”
He looked at the Ziploc baggie. Those long hairs. Jared sighed again.
“It’s a good thing the dead are restless.”
Jared turned the key in the ignition. He exited the parking lot near the start of the running trail, merged easily into traffic. A half hour later, he was in the shower. After that, dressed in comfortable sweats and shirtless, Jared settled onto the sofa. Puccini played softly. Butterfly defiant and doomed. Three fingers of whisky on the rocks sat on the end table.
Jared’s home was modest. One bedroom, one bath. A living room and combination kitchen dining room. Sparsely furnished, but comfortable. The most expensive items were his sound system and his liquor cabinet. No television. No computer. No photographs hanging on the walls. A large Van Gogh print hung on the wall facing the sofa. Whirling, dark colors around stars in the night sky. Jared’s eyes followed the lines of the print, tracing the rhythms of color, light, and darkness. He drained the whisky in three swallows, closed his eyes, and settled deeper into the cushions.
He awoke hours after sundown. It was time. Jared dressed in black. Khakis, long-sleeved T-shirt, a lightweight windbreaker, his jungle boots. In one jacket pocket, he carried a new Ziploc baggie with the hair and news article. The headline: Teen Still Missing. In the other jacket pocket, a suppressor for the HK45CT in a holster tucked into the waistband of his pants above his right buttock. On his other hip, Jared wore a sheathed trench knife with a six-inch blade. His phone, set to vibrate, was tucked into a pants pocket.
Before he left the house, Jared checked his equipment one more time. Everything was in its place. He took two Excedrin and exited, walking down the drive to his car. He listened to the weather report on the radio. Cloudy, light winds, no chance of rain. The night would be cool. Jared backed out of the drive, angled the car to the right. He tapped the CD button on the car stereo. The swelling, pulsing Introitus of Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor filled the car, and Jared drove to work.
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